


Southern Shores and Sunshine

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Pairings & Friendships, Caroline-centric, Cause Caroline takes no shit and I love it, Crossover, Dimension Travel, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow knows nothing, Jon-centric, M/M, Rating May Change, Season/Series 07 Spoilers, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11820039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Jon Snow crosses the Wall with his band of current allies, looking to capture a wight. He finds himself in an unfamiliar land, on the brink of an unfamiliar war. Will he get back home in time to save his own people?(You do not need to be familiar with Poldark.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to "Eastwatch" for GOT.  
> Set post Season 3 of Poldark.

There was nothing but a great cracking sound to indicate what would happen. Jon felt the ice covered ground beneath his feet give way, and then he was plunging through the abyss, swallowed by the endless wintery darkness below. His last thought before oblivion claimed him was not of the White Walkers and the horror that would certainly overrun his rag-tag of companions, nor was it of Melisandre and her insistence the Lord of Light brought him back for greatness. His last thought was of Sansa, her bright blue Tully eyes warm with affection; her pale cheek kissed by snowflakes, as her flaming red hair burnt a blazing banner against the howling winds of the North in Winter. _Sansa, I’ve failed you._ He thought, desperate and ashamed. _Sansa, I’m so sorry._

-

Jon woke in a garden. It was not the glass gardens of Winterfell, nor the sparce patch of land the Night’s Watch cultivated at Castle Black to grow herbs and other meagre supplies. It was more like the fertile lands of a castle in the Reach: a bubbling stream to his left, and on his right, stone pathways leading through cultivated flowers (but no crops), up to a small, unfamiliar holdfast. His head swam with impossible thoughts. Was this a vision or a dream? Jon had never dreamt of the South, nor seen it in detail, only in faded pictures in Maester Luwin’s books, as a child. What madness was this? He struggled to sit, but found he could barely move, his muscles screeching in protest. His head ached, as if he had been hit by the broad side of a sword.

He had been charging through the lands Beyond the Wall, and now he was in a garden in the South? It was a death vision or a foolish dream.

Jon attempted to drag himself to his feet but instead felt his vision fade again, just as a woman’s shrill voice began to scream.

-

Caroline stared at the man tucked into her guest chambers. She had been taking a turn in the garden with Horace trotting obediently at her feet, when she had come across the brigand asleep in her grass! The impudence! Had they been in a time of peace, Caroline would have forsaken propriety, to give the fiend a solid shake or a kick in the shin. But they were at war, and so she screamed for her loyal servants. Perhaps the man was a drunk; but he could just as easily have been a French revolutionary. With Dwight called away to his duty, Caroline was alone this morning, and she had no desire to become a hostage.

Luckily, the man was injured, not lying in wait to kidnap her, and had to be lifted inside by her footmen and a kitchen hand. The man wasn’t over tall or bulky, but his strange clothing was heavy and he carried a huge sword at his hip. Caroline had confiscated that, of course, until his guilt could be ascertained. She had sent for Dwight and Ross, but was determined to keep all knowledge of this stranger secret from the magistrate until she knew what was happening. George Warleggan was a detestable worm, and Caroline wouldn't suffer his arrogance in her home, not least because he would probably order her new guest executed before he even awoke, if he thought he could get away with it. No, Caroline wouldn't suffer breaches of justice in her own home if she had breath in her lungs to prevent it.

-

Jon woke again in another unfamiliar place, in a soft featherbed. A cosy room, richly furnished, with woven rugs on the wooden floor and curious wall hangings, with a blazing hearth, and a highborn lady sitting in a chair beside a small table. She was embroidering something small; perhaps a handkerchief. He thought again of Sansa, and her delicate hands confident with the needle and thread. The stranger was dressed in a manner not seen in the North; full skirted, with lace at her bosom and full sleeves. Her hair was the colour of wheat; golden, but light, not the heavy gold of Lannister colouring. There was nothing in the room that indicated her House or loyalties.

Jon swallowed, careful to remain quiet. He was alone, stripped down to his underclothes, and his sword was gone. He had only just convinced Daenerys to set him free from Dragonstone. He tried to convince himself that being free from shackles and not waking in a dungeon was a good sign. But he could not be sure. He looked again to the strange woman, was she a handmaid or a lady of a Great House? It was more difficult to tell than it ought to be. Her dress was very fine though.

“I know you are awake,” she spoke firmly, and looked Jon steadily in the eye, with bright blue eyes. “If you attempt to harm me in any fashion I shall have you flogged.”

Jon could see she was not joking.

“Aye, my lady.” He replied, trying to convey he was a man of honour. A flash of something in her eyes told him she did not believe it.

“You were trespassing on my lands. Asleep in my garden like a common drunk. You are lucky I did not call for the magistrate.” She informed him with a glare, setting down her sewing. “Explain yourself, Ser.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” Jon wisely did not ask what a ‘magistrate’ was.

The woman rose to her feet swiftly, with all the fire of a highborn. “I did not ask for your pardon. Tell me your name at once!”

Jon flinched, suddenly reminded of Lady Stark, staring down at him in disgust. The yellow-haired lady did not go on glaring, as his father's lady wife would have. Her eyes softened, but not her resolve.

Jon had no option but to tell her the truth. “I am Jon Snow, of House Stark.”

She did not seem to recognise his name at all though, nor his position as King in the North. She did not declare for House Stark, but nor did she name her allegiance for anyone else. She simply tilted her head to one side and said;

“My name is Carolyne Enys.”

“Please, Lady Enys. Will you tell me where we are?”

“I am not a Lady. You will call me Mrs Enys or nothing at all.”

Jon blinked in surprise. Mistress Enys seemed so clearly highborn. Possibly, she was the daughter of a low House, but that did not explain why she did not state which House. Mayhaps she was the wife of a Hedge Knight, or a merchant. He doubted she would tell him if he asked, and they were not essential facts. Jon needed to know where he was and if she intended on letting him go.

Before he could ask again, she sighed heavily. “Dwyt will chastise me for berating you so. You have been sleeping for two days, Ser. When you are healed, you will be on your way.” She glared at him again. “Do not think me a charity. You owe your fortune entirely to my husband, who has a weakness for all things pathetic and meek. If you try to prey on his good graces, again, I warn you - I will have you flogged.”

Jon nodded his understanding. It was obvious the woman knew of his name and reputation, and wanted him gone before he could drag her family into the war. But it was a promise he could not make. The dead would not stop for shrill words. They needed to band together to survive. Jon’s entire body ached, but it was clear he would not be harmed unless he acted rashly, so he settled back down, for now. Later, he could try and persuade her husband to join his cause. The only cause that mattered.

“I will have someone bring you broth.” Mistress Enys assured him, and then swept from the room, with her unfinished handkerchief, shutting the door firmly behind herself. Jon’s heart sunk as heard the familiar click of a lock turning.


	2. Chapter 2

Dwight pinched the bridge of his nose in what was becoming a familiar, irritating habit. He stood rigidly, anger making him brittle in both form and speech.

 “For goodness sake, Caroline,” he began, gesticulating unnecessarily, “You cannot go about locking up injured English gentlemen in our guest rooms! It is simply... not done.”

Caroline remained sitting placidly in her padded, hand-carved chair, and clicked her tongue in annoyance. Men could be incredibly short-sighted at times. Her beloved husband was no exception.

“Dearest,” she replied, in a most reasonable, measured tone; “He is a stranger, possibility some form of bandit, who carries a large sword on his person, and dresses as though he expects a snowdrift may envelop him at any moment. A gentleman, yes, but an unruly one. He cannot yet be trusted.”

“A bandit?” Dwight’s tone may have seemed merely incredulous to one who did not know him well, but Caroline heard the amusement lurking underneath.

In answer to his inquiry, Caroline leant forward and whispered conspiratorially; “Perhaps even a pirate. Wouldn’t that be scandalous?”

“A pirate?” Dwight treated her to his beautiful smile, “I should hope not. I’ve had quite enough seafaring misadventurers cross my path for one lifetime.”

Caroline's answering smile was sharp and devious. “If that is truly your opinion, poor Ross shall be heartbroken he is no longer welcome in our home.”

As she had expected, Dwight gave out a bark of uncontainable laughter. Ross Poldark was Dwight's closest friend, yet ‘seafaring misadventurer’ was quite possibly the most apt description of him that Caroline had ever heard. And she was privy to the less than flattering terms Ross’ wife heaped on his stubborn head, on an almost daily basis.

“Indeed, my darling,” Dwight agreed, “and yet the fact remains, we have no lawful right to detain this stranger. I am not a gaoler, and I cannot accept a man held under lock and key in my own home.”

It took a moment for Dwight to realise what he had implied, and Caroline felt her cheek grow pale, as her husband’s face took on that hated, haunted look of grief. All trace of joviality melted from the room.

“Lord above, Dwight.” Caroline whispered, tears springing to her eyes. “I did not mean- I only thought-"

“No, Caroline. The fault lies with me.” Dwight's voice was ice, and Caroline fought not to shiver. “I apologise for that ill conceived speech. If you will excuse me, I have matters to attend, too long neglected.”

 Spine rigid, Dwight marched from the room. Caroline lasted several minutes of calm, deep breathing, before tears welled up in her pretty blue eyes and tumbled over her cheeks. Her delicate fingers curled into fists, but she refused to sob and wail like a harpy. Dwight could not hear her weep so, he might think her vapid or weak. She simply refused to allow it. So her tears were silent and her regret limited to pink palms, from the pinch of her own nails.

-

 Jon considered the broth, laid on the bedside table by a petite female servant, and wondered if it had been poisoned. Melisandre had whispered insidiously, incessantly, that he was tethered to some great purpose for her Lord. That he would not have returned to life if that were not the case. As a child, Jon dreamed of a deed of honour worthy of being named a Stark by his lord father. But Jon was a child no longer. He was a King, a Commander, a dead man reborn. He would not submit without a fight, nor eat poisoned food.

 He dragged his weary body from the bedsheets, and approached the curious window. The glass was clearer than any Jon had seen before, yet far less sturdy than the glass in the North. It was the afternoon, for the sun was high, and the lush garden that stretched out below and before him was in rich health. Beyond it, a thick forest, too dense to see the horizon beyond. Jon could spy no guards in livery, defensive walls, nor ramparts in his limited view of the stone keep. It was a holdfast, as he had suspected, not a castle or fort. And yet, it was wholly unfamiliar in form and design. The stones were frivolously small, with no arrow slits. What manner of home was built with no natural defense? How far South could he be? With roses and such disregard for safety, it must be the Reach. Had Daenerys whisked him away on her dragon? Or had some other foul magic transported his body to another part of the realm? If Jon was a prisoner in the Reach, had Daenerys gifted him to the Lannisters, to broker a deal with Cersei?

 His sore head spun with the possibilities. At each it turn, it seemed Jon’s efforts were thwarted. _Sansa warned you of this. Everyone told you not to go South. Now look what has happened. She is alone again, because of you._

 Jon grimaced and marched away from the window. He was too high up to risk the climb down. This was indeed a wealthy household. The rugs on the floor were not frayed; the bedsheets soft, everything rich in colour. No doubt the master and mistress had a far superior room. Yet this guest chamber was equal to Robb’s room, or at least what Jon could remember of it. Mistress Enys had claimed not to be Lady, but Jon did not believe her for a moment.

 She was lying about her House. Was she lying about her assurance to let Jon leave?

 -

 Some time later, Mistress Enys swept into the room again, her eyes icy, her pale cheek even more so. She seemed taken aback to find Jon seated in her former place beside the warm hearth, the broth cold and uneaten. Her surprise did not last long.

 “Get up, trespasser.” She demanded, thrusting out her chin.

 Jon smiled. Almost all highborns shared the same arrogance. The same assurance of their place in the world. And none were more self-serving than those in the South.

 “Am I to be flogged, my lady?” he asked, making no move to stand.

 She glared at him, but did not call for her guards. “Not today.”

 Jon said nothing, expecting her to grow incensed at his silence, and announce herself to parade her high status. But Mistress Enys was not of that breed, it seemed. She sighed, and sagged, her stiff shoulders drooping.

 “I want you gone, ser. Your presence here reminds my family of past grief. I want that reminder gone, but Dwyt claims you are too weak to be sent out on the street. You are not a prisoner here. I was wrong to lock you in, and I apologise.” Mistress Enys said, in a tone of defeat.

 Jon could only stare in silence. He could not follow this circumstance at all. The gods were playing tricks on him. To be dumped in the Reach, like an unwanted carcass, now he had found himself with a sympathetic host? Mayhaps it would be easier than he thought, to recruit men here, to fight against the true enemy.

 “No apology is necessary, Mistress Enys. I understand your fear, finding a stranger on your lands, and I am grateful you had my wounds tended by a Maester.” He replied.

 There was a fresh bandage on Jon’s head, which he had seen in the incredibly clear mirror on the small toilet desk, alongside a comb and a bowl of water. Sansa had a mirror made of bashed silver, just as Lady Catelyn used to; but those images were never so clearly reflected, as the one Jon had seen in this. He had stared in awe for longer than he would care to admit, at his own clear reflection, touching the cool glass in awe. More evidence of sorcery. How could there be anyone left who still doubted its existence?

 Carolyne Enys brought Jon’s speech to a standstill when her look of sadness became one of conflict and confusion.

 “A maester? I am not familiar with that term. I had a doctor tend you, of course.” She said, as though he may be a simpleton.

 “A doct’or?” Jon repeated, bewildered. He mimicked Mistress Enys’ choice of phrase. “I am not familiar with _that_ term, my lady.”

She stared at him, and Jon took the opportunity to study her features. High cheekbones and pale skin. Mistress Enys looked Westerosi and spoke the Common Tongue. But her family could have fled during the war, or, if indeed they were Targaryen loyalists, maybe as far back as Robert’s Rebellion? That would explain her insistence she was not a lady, when she clearly was. She was too young to have been around then, but mayhaps her parents had fled, raising her with their speech and customs. Had he crossed the Narrow Sea to Braavos? But Braavos was a port, that did not have fertile forests, and Maesters were known there. Just how far from Westeros had Jon gone? And how could he hope to return in time to save Winterfell and Sansa?


	3. Chapter 3

Dwight wished he was more shocked to see his latest patient at the dinner table. But in all honesty, it seemed inevitable Caroline would drag the poor man from his bed, far earlier than necessary. With or without Dwight’s leave. Though Dwight was foremost a gentleman, of principle and rationality, he had long since admitted to himself that where his wife was concerned, he was incapable of sternness. Caroline Penvenen had stolen his heart with her sweet smiles and sharp tongue, and Dwight had never once desired to demand she give it back. Not even when he had been forced to abandon her, the night of their attempted elopement, and she had dismissed him from her life. It was only the tenacious, stubborn kindness of the Poldarks, which had dragged them back together. Their friends forced them to admit their long separation had done nothing to smother the flames of their love, though of course, far worse circumstances had separated them again.But Dwight pushed those black memories from his mind as soon as they arose, unwilling to be dragged under by unspeakable horrors. He focused instead on his lovely wife, and the sick man they had taken under wing.

 

Caroline was not some impeachable goddess; she was not an angel made flesh, though she had the beauty of one. She was a human, with the same human vices and flaws as any other. And Dwight loved each stubborn, wonderful part of her. Even the pieces that made him furious on occasion. So while he was somewhat irritated to see the ill man at their table, he could muster no more than a weary sigh, and an exasperated glance at his wife. Caroline ignored his censure, as was her wont, and proceeded to order the household, as though there was not a stranger seated in their midst.

 

After the necessary pleasantries, Dwight devoured his entrée of quail eggs and honeyed figs with the sincere, ravenous hunger of a man who had been too absorbed in his work to remember to eat. From the corner of his eye, Caroline eyed him critically, no doubt angered to see proof that he had foregone luncheon – which Dwight had solemnly promised her he would no longer do. Try as he might, Dwight could not bring himself to be ashamed. He had sworn he would eat more frequently, and he had honestly endeavoured to do so. It had not been purposeful, his lack of midday meal. He had simply been swept away with the severity of his occupation, and only roused from his paperwork when the clock on his mantel struck four. By then, it was far too late to bother the cooks for a meal, when they would be hard at work on dinner preparations.

 

As if sensing the tension, though he obviously could not know why, the stranger kept quiet. Dwight was pleased enough, just to see the other man eat. Though it was clear by the look on Mr Snow’s face, he was not familiar with the food he was presented with. Although Mr Snow was clearly unused to such fare, his manners were proper, and he ate mindfully - more gracefully than any commoner ever would. Regardless of his eccentric clothes, accent, and sword, the man was obviously a gentleman of breeding. Generally, Dwight cared more for the content of a man’s character, than their family lineage. Dwight was no man’s fool. He was also aware most men would take offense if they held a title, but were not treated in accordance to that station. He and Caroline had taken in the man, in his time of need, and nursed him for several days. That was their duty, as humane Christians and the King’s loyal subjects. But they had also unlawfully detained him in their guest chambers. Though Dwight had personally taken no hand in the action, as the man of the house, he would still be held accountable if Mr Snow brought a complaint against their household. Though it was dishonourable, Dwight could not help but hope kind words and decorum would convince the stranger not to do such a thing, once he was fit to leave.

 

-

 

Jon was not sure what he expected of the master of the house. Mistress Enys, for all her frail looks, was a petulant Southern woman in every way, with the flowery ostentation of the lower Kingdoms written in every crevice of her character. From her artfully coiffed hair to the tips of her lavishly shod feet, she was an elegant, dainty Lady, demure in dress and speech, even if she hid a spine of steel beneath it. The hard look in her lovely eyes was enough to warn him not to cross her, even without her repeated threats.

 

When she led the way from his sickroom, insisting he join the household for dinner, Jon did not have high expectations of his destination, despite her words. Jon had struggled with each step, as he relied on the arm of a strong servant, and half-expected her to order him to be tossed in the dungeon, under guard. This was despite her obvious shame at locking him in the sickroom, which may only be a ploy to hide her true intentions. Jon had finally learnt to be a suspicious man, after the Lannisters had taken his father’s head, his House was almost cleaved in two in the betrayals that followed, and his own sworn brothers stabbed him to death.

 

Mistress Enys refused to offer further explanation on the nature of a doct’or. From his time Beyond the Wall, Jon knew there were skilled healers who learnt their trade from the land, without the aid of training in Oldtown. Still, he found it incredulous that there would be no maester in such a wealthy household as this. As he slowly travelled through corridors in Mistress Enys’ footsteps, he was afforded a showcase of exquisite tapestries, rugs, and vases decorated with unfamiliar symbols, plants and battles. As they descended a staircase which was a rare mixture of both wood and stone, Jon stopped looking for clues in the decoration. Nothing was familiar, not even the skirmishes depicted in the wall-hangings. It was futile to keep looking for sigils he was not going to find.

 

Thankfully, no dank, dim space awaited him. Mistress Enys led Jon past the largest single hearth he had ever seen, into an even grander room in which to dine. Seeing she had been truthful, Jon could not stifle the hope his hostess was a woman of honour, even if she was a Southerner or an Essosi. As with everything else in the holdfast, the dining Hall was unlike any he had seen before. Instead of a broad space, with a high table for the family and honoured guests, with space for many lower tables for bannermen and assorted smallfolk, there was a only single, solitary table, with chairs enough for twelve. It was carved from a rich dark wood, and varnished until it shone in the candlelight. A huge candelabra, decorated with cut glass, hung suspended directly above it. The light from burning candles refracted through the clear stones, so the walls shone with rich rainbow light. Garlands of pink and white flowers hung from every eave, vase, and available mantel, filling the room with a sweet, delicate scent. A row of thick, silver, heavy drapes, hung from the ceiling, all along the wall to Jon’s left. No doubt the fabric was sealing out the cold, from the windows they hid. But not a one was embroidered with a house sigil, further frustrating him. He could be in the Westerlands for all he knew; in the very belly of his enemies. And he would not know it, until they slit his throat in his sleep. Still, Jon could hardly run at this precise moment; his body was still too weak to even walk to the chair he was allotted without aid. The silent manservant deposited Jon into the waiting seat, offering not a word, before bowing respectfully to his mistress, and leaving the room.

 

Then Jon was alone with his host, the beautiful Mistress Enys, who coolly seated herself straight across from him. Her steely gaze pinned him in place, killing the words in his throat. In scant minutes, a far door opened, and they were joined by a man older than Jon, but still far from middle age; his handsome face was clean shaven, with a healthy blush to his cheek, smiling blue eyes, framed by a swish of yellow hair. He stopped in surprise when he saw Jon seated at the table, his eyes briefly flickering to the silent mistress of the house. Jon couldn’t help but notice the man was too thin to properly fill out his clothes. He wore a light shirt and a deep blue tunic, with a curious design. It had no sleeves, and Jon could not see any visible laces which held it together. Instead, a neat, ordered row of golden thread wove its way directly down the centre, dissected at intervals by large black beads. Jon had never seen a man wearing clothes decorated by beads before, not even Joffrey, the pampered little shit of a prince, when he sauntered around Winterfell.

 

This was clearly the mysterious Dwyt. The surprised look on his face revealed he had not known Jon was to be attending the family of the house, for dinner. But the master, be he merchant, hedge knight or lord, did not glare at his unexpected guest, nor his wife. Instead, he offered Jon a wide, but sincere grin.

 

“It is heartening to see you well enough to join us, Ser.” Said Master Enys, as he advanced to the table. After dropping a kiss to Mistress Enys’ cheek, which she received warmly, he outstretched a warm hand to Jon, without hesitation. Jon couldn’t help but stare, wondering if the other man expected him to kiss it. When Jon didn’t respond, the easy smile faltered on his host’s face. Unwilling to look ungrateful, knowing that he could well have died without their assistance, Jon thrust out his own hand. He could only watch in continued bewilderment, as Master Enys took hold of his hand firmly, and gave it a vigorous shake, up and down, before releasing it again. This odd ritual complete, Master Enys formally introduced himself.

 

“Doct’or Dwyt Enys.” He said, and Jon couldn’t help his jolt of shock.

 

“You are the doct’or? The one who tended me?” He clarified, the words falling from his lips, before Jon could swallow them back.

 

Doct’or Enys laughed, seating himself at the end of the table, in the space between Jon and his wife. “Indeed I am, Ser.”

 

Jon tried to suppress his confusion. Nothing here was comparable to the rules of life as he knew it, as a child growing up in Winterfell, a member of the Night’s Watch, an infiltrator roaming with the Free Folk, or the King in the North. Nothing. No maester could take a wife; but Mistress Enys claimed to have no knowledge of such a trade. It was baffling, but Jon knew better than to inquire for more answers he would not get.

 

“I owe you my thanks, my lord.” Jon said, and then introduced himself properly, with both name and House, waiting for the usual questions, which must surely come now. But Dwyt Enys only shared a look of concern with his wife, not acknowledging Jon as Ned Stark’s bastard, as King in the North, nor asking after the state of Northern affairs. As if his name was completely unrecognisable here; as though House Stark had never existed at all for these people. It sent a chill running down Jon’s spine, which was not warmed by the sweet wine presented to him, in a cold goblet made entirely of glass. Jon stared at the formed and shaped glass in awe, sure he would cut himself on a sharp edge, but it was totally smooth, and slick to the touch. Jon desperately wanted to beg the Enyses for the truth of their land at that moment, but knew they would only take him for a madman.

 

Jon was not skilled with words. He could not adequately explain how he had fallen through ice to find himself in their gardens, far from the customs he understood. So, Jon contented himself with drinking deeply of his wine, once he saw his guests drink from the same bottle, confidently poured by an elderly cupbearer. Jon was enormously grateful to Carolyne Enys at that moment, for affording him this opportunity to be reasonably sure the alcohol was poison-free. It was far more appetising than the paltry food; four tiny little eggs arrived on a plate, with a sweetly-glazed fruit of unknown origin. The dam broken, Jon ate it all and thanked his guests, though it was far too rich for his simple tastes. He despaired that little else would come; food was scarce since the destruction of the Riverlands and later the Reach, though if he were indeed across the Narrow Sea, that would not matter.

 

Jon was heartened to hear another course was on its way, but before it arrived, a man younger than all of them hurried into the room. He too was dressed in finery to match their hosts, though he was clad lighter colours; a russet tunic and matching overcoat, cream breeches and black boots. Instead of pale gold hair, his was a light, chestnut brown, to match his warm eyes. The newcomer regarded them all with unreserved joy sparkling in his eyes, the like of which Jon had never witnessed before. Jon wondered if he were kin to Master or Mistress Enys, knowing full well how looks were not always a true indicator; how different he and Arya had always looked, compared to the rest of the trueborn Stark siblings…

 

“My deepest, unreserved apologies!” trilled the man, with a voice like a bard, laughter dancing through every word. “If I had known our mysterious new guest was joining us tonight, I would not have been late, I swear it.”

 

Everything about him was relaxed, even and smooth, as he joined their small party. The young man eagerly stuck his hand out for Jon, who repeated the strange ritual from earlier, moving his own hand along with the swift motion, now that he knew to expect it. His grip was softer than Dwyt’s.

 

“Lieutenant Hugh Armitage, your servant ser,” said the young man.

 

“Leff Tenant?” Jon repeated, hesitantly, wondering if those odd words were a title, a name, or something else entirely.

 

“Call me Hugh, please,” said Hugh, waving an airy hand, as poured himself a glass of wine, and took a deep gulp before carefully setting it down. Then he shimmered around the table like a mermaid, gliding through the waves with barely a ripple. First, he slid from Jon’s elbow to the gap between Dwyt and Carolyne, and kissed the mistress’ proffered hand. This Jon understood. The next was new to him. Utterly unashamed, Hugh leaned down and bestowed a gentle, loving kiss to Dwyt’s cheek, his hand smoothing down the older man’s shoulder tenderly. Not just in public, but in front of the man’s wife, in full view of Jon, a man he did not know. Jon’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably. He was no stranger to the notion that some men lay together, but he had never known them to be so brazenly affectionate in public, nor so open in front of a lawful wife. But Jon did not avert his eyes like a green boy. He had seen too many vile, despicable undead monsters in his life, to be disgusted by affection between the living. There were far worse horrors for Jon to care about. Mistress Enys did not bat an eye, nor did her smile falter as her husband received the attentions of another man, brief though they were, and arguably chaste.

 

Instead her red lips scolded Hugh playfully for wandering too far, and getting lost in the grass. The man did not deny it, cheerfully replying; “I hoped to see fairies dancing among the gorse-bushes, but they were too shy to dance for me today,” with a cheerful shrug of his shoulders. Then he planted himself in the seat beside Carolyne, as servants began to stream in, laden down with dishes for the next course, which smelled divine.

 

Carolyne Enys laughed, bright and loud, and for a moment, Jon completely forgot his troubles. Sansa sounded like that once, he remembered. Without care, without burden. _But she was always burdened,_ Jon reminded himself, _always tasked with upholding her family’s name and honour, always expected to make a good match that would strengthen her House, and birth trueborn sons for her husband, whom she must always defer to, regardless of how well he treated her. Sansa had never been free to love with simple sheer joy, just the same as any highborn._

 

Just the same as Jon.

 

-

 

Dinner was interrupted before the second course by Hugh, who came rushing in with a bright smile and apologies falling from his lips. As usual, Dwight watched as Caroline dismissed them with a wave of her pale hand, accepting a kiss on that same extremity with her usual grace. Hugh’s soft lips were chapped on his cheek, no doubt from a day spent gallivanting across the moors. Dwight hid his fond smile behind his wine glass. Mr Snow regarded their friend with suspicion and confusion, which seemed to be the man’s chief reaction to everything around him.

 

Truly, Dwight did not know what to make of their brooding new guest. He barely spoke and offered no information regarding his state when they found him. In contrast, dear Hugh was as unchanged as the blue of the skies, and a breath of clean air. And chronically incapable of arriving on time, because he was too dedicated to his appreciation of beauty. The great outdoors were too diverting for Hugh to notice the passing of the hours. The fading light dancing through the clouds, the roll of the sea; it was akin to beholding a Michelangelo, in Hugh’s opinion. But his own art seemed mostly dedicated to capturing the female form. Dwight rarely glimpsed the young man’s sketches, as he was far too conscious of invading his privacy, but he had seen enough. Hugh was skilled, of that there could be no doubt. But he was still an amateur, and regretfully one who was destined never to advance beyond that level.

 

Dwight’s heart overflowed with sorrow for Hugh, who ever had his undying affection. For Hugh alone, a harsh word for tardiness would never fall from Dwight’s lips, no matter the grand station of any guests left waiting. It was a testament to Hugh’s sweet nature, regardless of his lax social propriety, that he never actively sought to embarrass anyone with his indiscretions. He was simply unable to function within the strict remit of society’s demands; his character too whimsical, too romantic to be bridled by Christian notions of morality. Dwight would begrudge him nothing. Hugh had been Dwight's companion in the depths of perdition; Hugh alone had clawed his soul up from the gaping maw of the abyss, before the darkness could claim him entirely. There would forever be a bond between them; and Dwight would slit the throat of anyone who sought to harm Hugh, Hippocratic oath be damned.

 

Dwight took effort to keep his thoughts here, now; the leg of mutton and buttery potatoes, his darling Caroline, as she smiled widely and squeezed his hand. Steadfast Hugh, who beguiled them with the beauty he had witnessed that day. And even the enigmatic Mr Snow, who finally seemed to settle, the tension softening out of his shoulders as Hugh’s sweet, measured voice lulled them all into a hazy state of languor.


End file.
